The Capital Games: Blood and Justice
by saxon-for-mayor
Summary: Ever since the final Hunger Games were announced Cornelia Crane knew she and her best friend, Lexana Snow, would be a part of them. Now the only questions are, how far will she get, do the reaped even want to win and how will Capital citizens react to getting a taste of their own medicine. ON HIATUS


**A/N: Hi! This is my first story, so it probably isn't the greatest thing I'll ever do, but I really appreciate constructive criticism. Please no flames, unless this story is completely terrible, but, I tried! I'll be updating as often as I can, which may not be too often due to school.**  
Cornelia Crane  
It's reaping day. The first and last one that I'll participate in. There are modified rules to this version of the games. There are twenty four tributes, twelve boys, twelve girls; the names are put in the boys bowl and the girls and are all drawn in the same place, city circle. You have more names in the bowl depending on how important your parents were. Since my father had been head gamemaker for twenty five years, the odds are not in my favor.  
I stand in the marked area for seventeen year olds, next to my best friend Lexana Snow. Her grandfather was the president, so her name is probably in that bowl countless times, giving her an almost guaranteed spot in the final Hunger Games.  
The drawing begins.  
"Crystal Haven" a government official whose name I haven't bothered to learn speaks. The girl whose name has been selected has long red hair. She wears a creamy white blouse and has startling blue eyes.  
"Ky Unami" The boy who comes up to the stage has tan skin, somewhat spiky hair and is at least six feet tall. He has broad shoulders and he looks fairly strong.  
I zone out for the next couple of names until I hear,  
"Cornelia Crane" As I walk up to the stage, I keep my face expressionless. My black hair is tied back in a braid and a silver dress almost blends in with my pale skin. If there was one phrase to describe my physical appearance it would be polar opposites. My black hair is a huge contrast to my pale skin and grey eyes  
"Joshua Zana" The boy who apparently has this name walks up to the stage. He has auburn hair and amber eyes. He had a smirk on his face that told you he didn't really take anything seriously.  
"Aquiliana Silver" This girl really stands out to me. Her hair is a neon shade of blue and her eyes are such an icy blue they look almost grey. But it is her age that startles me the most. She looks like she could be no more than thirteen. For a split second her eyes show fear which is quickly replaced by a cold unforgiving mask. This is unusual. Perhaps she was one of the children who didn't think they were going to get picked. Just one of the nameless faceless children in the crowd.  
"Hayden Park" When he comes up to the stage I see that he has blonde hair and green eyes. His skin is a golden tan color and he looks strong. But, as strong as he is under the mask of indifference I see fear.  
"Wilhemina Harris" The name's owner comes up. She has auburn hair and wears a white dress. She has pale skin, freckles and her eyes look like sapphires.  
The names that follow usualy belong to the children of the very rich, or very powerful, with the occasional child who really didn't expect to be chosen. The whole time I am only listening for one name, trying to hold the inevitable off, praying that Lexana is not chosen.  
When the twenty first name is chosen I am almost getting ready to thank myself. 'Not yet' I remind myself 'She could still be chosen' and I was right to not get my hopes up. I pay attention when the twenty third name is called.  
"Lexana Snow"  
I search the crowd and lock eyes with her. I give her a smile that says 'I guess we're in the same boat.' Or, at least, I hope that's what she interprets it as. She walks up to the stage. She has platinum blonde hair, icy blue eyes, pale skin, and her lips are a deep red shade of lipstick. The boys in our grade in school thought she was pretty, but I never got it. Overdone, I would think, not pretty.  
When she gets in line with the other female tributes, our eyes lock again. We have a way of talking through expressions, a silent language that we have silently developed.  
I ask, 'Hey, are you ok?'  
She answers, 'Yeah, I'm fine.'  
I persist, 'you sure?'  
What she responds startles me, 'Cornelia if I lose these games I'll die, and if I win them they'll probably just kill me. So I won't kill you, I'll let you kill me'  
I don't look at her for a long time and instead pretend to listen to the announcer drone on about something. I can kill. I won't lie and tell you I can't. But my best friend? The one who I've known since I was a baby that I know because our fathers had meetings? No, I can't kill that.  
The official finishes his speech and we are guided in a line to the training center. What is this, preschool?  
I sigh. This is going to be a long week.


End file.
